


Guide

by athenejen



Category: Glee
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Hand Job, Masturbation, Music, Oral Sex, Porn Battle, Teacher/Student, mild D/s undercurrents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenejen/pseuds/athenejen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jesse gets distracted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guide

**Author's Note:**

> Addresses the prompts "boy," "experience," and "sound."

"She tied you to her kitchen chair, she broke your throne and she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the hallelujah," Jesse sings. He's standing stage center, heels on the masking-tape X. The lights half-blind him as he projects his voice as far as he can into auditorium, but he fell in love with performing at age five, so he hardly notices. Even a flashlight shining directly into his eyes doesn't make him blink, these days.

Ms. C is in her usual chair, surrounded by notes as she fiddles with a pencil. He can't see her eyes through the lights, but he can tell she's watching him critically. It's late. They'd worked through dinner and she sent the rest of Vocal Adrenaline home an hour ago.

He's just begun the fourth verse when she cuts him off. "No! No, no, no. This song only works if it's _personal_. It has to come from the most emotional place inside of you. The audience has to believe you're whispering it to them in the night. Again!"

Jesse goes back to the second verse. He closes his eyes and tries to really feel the words, rolling each of them against the roof of his mouth as he sings.

He doesn't even get to the repeated hallelujahs before she interrupts him. "Stop! Now you're _too_ internal. Feel the emotion, whisper it to yourself, yes, but you still have to connect it to the audience!"

When Jesse opens his eyes, she's walking toward the stage along the left aisle. The subtle side slit in her knee-length skirt flashes tiny hints of skin at him as she walks. Her papers are no longer on the table, likely they're in the briefcase she's setting down on the seat at the end of the row. She moves to front row center and sits down, then leans forward with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped in front of her.

He has a perfect view of her cleavage. Not that Ms. C shows a lot of it -- she dresses like a teacher, mostly -- but the angle lets him see every millimeter clearly, disappearing into the vee of her blouse. He forces his eyes back up to her face.

She looks amused. He refuses to blush as he meets her eyes. Instead, he starts the song again, from the top.

She leans back in the chair, still radiating amusement. He gets all the way to the end of the fourth verse this time. When she stops him, he realizes that his eyes have traveled most of the way down her body, nearly to the floor. He's been watching her cross and uncross her legs.

He has no idea how the song was going.

"Jesse," she says. She sounds almost kind, which immediately makes him suspicious. "You got distracted. It's almost like..." Her eyes are intent on his face. "It's almost like you're curious." She smiles, catlike.

"Come here," she orders, beckoning him towards her, "off the stage." When he's standing in front of her, she looks up at him thoughtfully. "Perhaps this will help you focus," she continues. "Kneel." She gestures to the ground.

He drops to the floor without any conscious involvement from his brain.

"Give me your hands," she says. He does. She places his left hand on her right breast, palming the side of the curve. She tucks the other just barely under the hem of her skirt, his thumb pressed into the warm skin of her thigh.

Her gaze holds his, serious and calm. "You can touch as much as you want."

He sucks in a harsh breath of air. He keeps his eyes locked on hers, and slowly, slowly moves his left hand to cup her breast, to squeeze it gingerly, to skim his palm underneath until he can feel her nipple starting to peak beneath his fingers. He can't resist glancing down, then, and he knows his face shows his awe. Her shirt is thin enough that he can see it clearly, and he suddenly realizes that maybe she's been wanting this as much as he has. He rolls the nipple between his fingers, then does the same to the one on the other side.

"Good," she murmurs, "that's good." He feels her thigh shift as her legs fall open, and remembers his other hand. Tentatively, he slides his hand up her thigh, until the tips of his fingers brush something wiry. His eyes snap back up to her face. She's not wearing underwear, and she smiles at him as he figures it out.

_Fuck_. His left hand pinches her nipple reflexively, and she shudders. Then, with both hands, he draws the skirt up to her hips, staring down at the triangle of neatly-trimmed pubic hair. His fingers are trembling, but he tangles them in the skirt at her hips and holds on tight. She spreads her legs a few inches wider.

"I can teach you, if you want, guide you through this. But only if you want it. Or we can just forget this ever happened. Your choice."

He shakes his head slightly, still staring fixedly down at her. He licks his lips, then says, voice rough and low, "I want it."

"Good," she replies. She shifts to the edge of the seat and spreads her legs wide. His hands are on her inner thighs now. His fingers are still trembling, but he digs them into her skin to hold her open and she makes an approving sound. Then she places a gentle hand on the nape of his neck and guides him carefully down until his mouth is hovering just above her skin.

"Now I'm going to help you find my clitoris," she says. Her tone is cool, almost clinical. "This is the most important step for making any woman feel good."

He nods. He's breathing onto her damp skin; he can smell her and it's heady and overwhelming and he wants to taste it.

"Pick a spot close to the center," she instructs. "Now, softly -- lick. Mmm, that's good, keep your tongue nice and soft and light. Move a little to the left. My left. Yes. Now down just a touch. _Yes_. Feel that little nub under your tongue? Flatten your tongue out over it -- _yes_. Very good."

He darts his tongue in, attempting to lick her again, and she gasps. "No, flatter. Softer. Yes, good. Undulate your tongue, gently."

He gets into a steady rhythm. She tastes like musk and heaven, and he can feel her getting warmer under his tongue, the nub beneath his tongue more and more _there_.

She gasps again above him, but it sounds encouraging this time. "Yes," she says. "Just like that."

So he does it just like that, until she's shaking and he has to tighten his grip on her thighs to keep her in place, until she's whimpering quietly above him and the taste of her changes as his tongue slips more easily against her.

Until she throws her head back and cries out, "Yes, yes, yes, yes yes yes yes yes yes _yes_," and jerks against his mouth, and he feels her fingers in his hair tugging him backwards and off.

His mouth and tongue feel swollen and strange, but when she leans forward to kiss him, tongue sweeping into his mouth, he kisses her back eagerly.

Then her hand presses down on the zipper of his jeans, and he moans into her mouth. She flips open the button and draws the zipper down with one hand, the other buried in his hair as they kiss.

Her fingers dip under the waistband of his boxers, and when she takes him in her hand, he moans again, so loud he can hear it bounce off the back wall of the auditorium. It feels like he's been hard for _days_.

He pants shallowly, breaths ragged in his own ears, as she strokes him -- once, twice, five times and he's coming so hard his brain can barely process it, his body instinctively curling forward and in until his head is resting on her chest as he breaks completely apart.

It takes him a minute or two to be able to breathe again. She cards her fingers through his hair, then pushes him back so she can look at his face. She smiles, satisfied, and keeps pushing until he's sitting back on his heels, face tipped up to watch her.

She pulls her hand out of his boxers and holds it up to his mouth, says, "Lick." He obeys, lapping his own come off of her hand in little, flicking motions of his tongue. He lets his eyes drift closed. It tastes kind of bitter, but he can feel his cock twitching, and by the time he's licked her hand clean, he's half hard again.

She's still smiling down at him when he opens his eyes. She leans forward, kisses him on the cheek. He can smell her perfume, earthy and musky and sophisticated.

She whispers in his ear, "Good boy."

Then she lets go of his hair to stand up and walk to the end of the row to snag her briefcase, before heading for the nearest door.

Over her shoulder, she calls back, "See you tomorrow. We'll work on your Marius."

And then she's gone, and he's left kneeling in front of an empty chair, breathing hard and a bit dizzy.

He tips sideways and slumps bonelessly on the ground for about ten minutes, willing his hard-on to go away so that he can walk out of here without all of his blood pooling in his dick. He knows from experience that his body routing blood away from his brain makes him clumsy.

Willpower isn't always enough, though, especially not when he can still smell her on his face and taste her on his lips. He fumbles a hand into his boxers and strokes himself fast to the memory of the sounds she made as she came against his tongue.

Afterwards, he licks his own hand clean, eyes closed, pretending she's there to watch.


End file.
